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anne sexton/sylvia plath


Okay, for my weekly poetic effort, I decided to combine two of my favorite female confessional angst-ridden students-of-Robert-Lowell, Anne Sexton (HBIC) and Sylvia Plath (every oven's best friend).


There's something about their bodies of work that's been resonating with me a lot lately. prep for modernist poetry? I THINK SO.

Anyway, neither of these ladies lived happy lives and I'm not getting into the sordid details. You think they would! But they didn't. Y R RICH PPL SO SAD.

I Am Vertical - Sylvia Plath


But I would rather be horizontal.
I am not a tree with my root in the soil
Sucking up minerals and motherly love
So that each March I may gleam into leaf,
Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed
Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,
Unknowing I must soon unpetal.
Compared with me, a tree is immortal
And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,
And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimallight of the stars,
The trees and the flowers have been strewing their cool odors.
I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.
Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping
I must most perfectly resemble them--
Thoughts gone dim.
It is more natural to me, lying down.
Then the sky and I are in open conversation,
And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:
Then the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

The Truth The Dead Know- Anne Sexton (there's this badass recording I need to find of this)

For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959
and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959


Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.

We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.

My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in the stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.






UNTIL NEXT TIME

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